


Pieces

by Prentice



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eppescest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prentice/pseuds/Prentice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don Eppes is hung over the next morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces

Don Eppes is hung over the next morning. No great surprise considering the drunken binge he'd been on the night before but still an unwelcome reminder in the light of day. Mercifully, it's his day off – the first one he's had since before the bank robbery case three months ago – so after a painful stumbling shuffle to the bathroom, bladder near to bursting, he dry swallows a handful of Tylenol Extra Strength tablets and crawls back into bed, comforter pulled firmly over his head.

It doesn't take long to realize he isn't going to be getting any more sleep today. His head is pounding with every breath and his eyes feel swollen and gritty. His mouth, tightly shut to avoid the smell of morning breath, is like a dirty ashtray filled with the flat taste of stale beer.

Pushing back the comforter with a pained sigh, Don sits up, trying his best not to think of the sight he must make in his rumbled t-shirt, stained gray after an utterly misguided attempt to do laundry at three in the morning, and a limp pair of forest green boxers that have managed to creep northwards sometime during the night. That isn't to mention his night's growth of stubble, unwashed hair that is still stiff from gel, and undoubtedly bloodshot eyes. Wincing, he shifts, squinting against the stray beams of sunlight that sneak through the mini-blinds and tries to ignore his father's voice in his head threatening to hose him down.

' _Damn you, Charlie_ ,' Don thinks, hand rising to scrub tiredly at his eyes.  _'Damn you for this.'_

The burning liquid feel of anger churns in his gut, hot and heavy, making him feel nausea and maybe a little dizzy. It's hard to tell over the pounding in his head. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to his feet and makes his way back to the bathroom, silently thanking his landlord for picking an apartment without a window in the bath.

* * *

The mirror over the sink is fogged over by the time he steps out of the shower, sparing him from having to look him self in the eyes when he brushes his teeth, swishes the mouthwash around his mouth once, twice, three times. He doesn't bother to shave. There's no point to, honestly. He isn't planning to go out and the idea of anyone stopping by that he would need to shave for is kind of laughable, so instead he swishes, spits, wipes his mouth and goes to change into a comfortable pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

The jeans are old, worn in to the point of being downy to the touch and wearing thin at the kneecaps. The sweatshirt is the same; at least on the old front. It's a holdover from his days in the academy; royal blue with the FBI's emblem fading just over his heart. It's the only thing, aside from his certificates and diploma, which he still has from back then. Everything else is – gone.

_'_ _'Not everything,'_ he thinks sardonically, lips twisting into a sickly sour smile as he slides two pieces of bread into the toaster.  _'Some things are still there, even after trying to get rid of them. Like_ _fucking cockroaches_ _.'_

Pressing the heels of his palms against his burning eyes, Don leans heavily against the counter top, the hiss and drip of the coffee maker the only sound in his apartment. It's nearly eleven; sixteen till to be exact. He spied the time while making the coffee, and he wants nothing more than to call his father and ask him to come over but he's thirty-four years old and well past the need for Alan Eppes to be taking care of him, especially over a hangover.

Dropping his hands, Don stares blankly across the room. The edge of his wallet is sticking out from behind an empty vase that someone, he can't remember now, gave him just before he left Albuquerque. It had had flowers in it, white ones, with a yellow ribbon tied around it when they gave it to him. He remembers being touched by the gesture, even if it made him feel a little awkward at accepting such a gift, and tries to batten down the urge to smash it down to pieces. Pick it up and chunk it against the wall, sweep it up and throw it away.

* * *

When the toast pops and the coffee is done, Don sits at his kitchen table, back to the vase, chewing methodically. He eats slowly, one bite at a time, and sips the coffee intermittently, grimacing at the taste and what it does to his stomach. But knowing from experience that, pain killers and a massive dose of anti-nausea medicine aside, this is one of the few things that will actually cure him of his hangover before the mornings out. Then maybe he can have some lunch or at least go back to bed.

His cell phone is beside the sink, partially obscured by a stiff dish towel and a half-empty bowl of pretzels that are at least a week old. He stares it for a long moment it before fishing it out of its hiding place and staring at the display.

Two missed calls. Two voice mails. Three texts.

Don doesn't look or listen at any of them before he switches it off.

_'Fuck you, Charlie.'_

* * *

The day crawls by once Don is on the sofa, body limp and sore now that his hangover is receding. He flips channels on the television; volume turned low, and ends up on an old episode of Stargate Atlantis because there's nothing else on, not even a Sports Center recap of last night's game. He falls asleep ten minutes in, mouth hanging open, a line of drool down his cheek, and the sound of gunfire in his ears.

* * *

It takes Don a while to realize that the hammering in his ears isn't actually his head but a persistent knocking at the front door of his apartment. It takes him two tries before he's on his feet, toes aching where he stubbed them against the coffee table, and hobbles to the door. His eyelids feel raw and puffy, like he's been crying in his sleep, but he opens the door anyway.

It's Amita.

Standing tall and beautiful in the low light of the apartment complexes hallway, she reminds Don of the Albuquerque vase and has to resist the urge to go back to the kitchen and smash it into dust.

"Amita, hey, what are you doing here?" His voice is like gravel sandpaper, making them both wince but she doesn't comment on it. Instead she flips open her messenger bag, the worn green one with the Salvation Army cross on it, and slides out a large manila envelop, holding it out to him.

"Charlie wanted me to give you these. He said you," she hesitates, smile not quite meeting her eyes when she meets his bloodshot stare. "He said you weren't answering your phone. I was in the neighborhood so…"

Don nods and takes the envelop from her hands. Her nails are painted glitter pink today and she has dangling silver butterfly earrings in her ears that he knows his brother gave her for her last birthday. "Thanks. I'll just." He motions to the dark confines of his apartment, already stepping back, hand on the inside door knob. "Thanks."

He doesn't wait for her to walk away before he shuts the door.

* * *

The broken vase and envelop go into the trash.

* * *

An hour later and he's eating greasy Chinese food out of a box with oily stains on the side, stomach clenching and unclenching in protest. There's sweet and sour pork, lo mein, noodles and a large order of eggrolls that stream grease when he bites into them. His face and hands are a mess, the cheap chopsticks the takeaway came with sliding through his fingers.

He gives up on them a few mouthfuls through and soon he's using an eggroll and fingers to scoop food into his mouth because he doesn't want to go into the kitchen again. It's easier, anyway, and he doesn't think about what his team would say if they saw him now. This isn't about them.

This is about Don, and Charlie, and maybe even a little bit about Amita and that fucking vase he shattered into pieces.

* * *

He's thrown up twice. Once after the sweet and sour pork and once while cleaning up the bathroom floor because he didn't quite make it to the toilet the first time but does the second. He calls his dad after that, because he's too tired to clean himself up, and makes him promise not to bring Charlie.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes later and he feels like a kid again, curled in bed with one of his father's warm hands cradling his head. "Drink this, Donnie." He does it without thinking, lips opening, sipping quietly, eyes bleary and still bloodshot. It's soda that's room temperature that slides down his throat, calms his aching stomach.

"Good." His father sounds – like a father. Worried, affectionate, concerned, relieved. "You get some sleep, son. I'm going to go clean up." Warm fingers card through his hair, touch his cheek, and tuck him into bed. "And call your brother. He's worried."

Don's asleep before he can protest.

* * *

Its cool fingers that he wakes to, lying on his cheek, tracing his jaw. He knows them like he knows his soul and it makes him want to throw up again. "Charlie?"

Hesitation that he feels more than hears and then the fingers drift away, sliding down his jaw and off his body. "Dad had to go to the store. He didn't want to leave you alone."

Don sighs, turns his head, stomach clenching around the sharp edge of anger that's ready to strike. "Okay. I, you, okay. I'm going back to sleep."

"Don, I –"

"No," he whispers, throat clogged and eyes burning. "No."

* * *

Don makes it a half an hour before he's curled against his brother's side, forehead pressed against the soft fabric of Charlie's t-shirt. One of his brother's hands is ghosting through his hair, tickling his scalp, and he has to fight the tears that threaten to spill over.

"I'm sorry, Don." His little brother's voice is quiet between them, hushed as though they are in a library or church instead of Don's bedroom, Don's bed. "I didn't mean for things to get so out of hand. It was just, I, we – "Charlie clears his throat, suddenly sounding strangled, in pain.

"I love you  _so much_ , Don. So much. You're my brother and I love you and maybe I'm going to Hell or, or, some kind of awful place for it but I don't regret what we did. I don't regret it. And I want to do it again and again an –"

Don's mouth is hard and hot against his brother's, consuming the litany into action.

* * *

His brother makes soft sounds in the back of his throat, mouth hungry and open, as he claws frantically at Don's back, hips jerking beneath his. Their bodies are moving in disjointed sequence, unable and unwilling to find the perfect rhythm now that they're kissing, touching, tasting. It's too much, way too much, and Don has to pull back, put some space.

He stares down at his brother's flushing face, his dilated eyes that are wide and dark, and his lips that are swollen and red. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, feeling unsettled and foolish and so fucking turned on that his balls ache in time with his brother's heartbeat. "You're so goddamn beautiful, Charlie."

When Don finally rolls off his brother, ripping his lips and body brutally away, it isn't because he wants to, it's because he has to. Their father will be back any minute now – how long ago was it when the man had left anyway? – and he can't bare to think about the look on his face if he saw them like this: gasping and achingly hard for each other.

* * *

"What about Amita?" Don asks some time later, body as far from his brother's as he can get without leaving the bed entirely. He stares at the ceiling, the fan that circles lazily, the air condition vent that's heavy with dust. Anywhere but at the man next to him.

"What about her?"

"You're dating her, aren't you? You're practically…" Engaged. The word dries up in his mouth and he swallows thickly, anger once again pulsing inside him. "I mean, aren't you?"

"I – it's – complicated."

"Complicated. Yeah."

* * *

Their father brings back a bulging bag of groceries, seemingly oblivious to the tension that thickens the air between them, and Don allows himself to be distracted with the promise of chicken noodle soup and saltine crackers.

* * *

His brother leaves after their father does, his eyes tired and old. He tugs at his t-shirt when he stands, smoothes out the wrinkles, passes a hand through his hair. He doesn't look at Don when he says 'goodbye', just throws it over his shoulder in a quiet mumble, and whispers 'I love you' before he shuts the apartment's door.

* * *

An hour later and he shuffles out of bed, wandering around his apartment like he's never seen it before. When he finds the empty trash bin the broken vase had been in, he looks away, eyes burning and throat tight. He whispers 'I love you too' to the doorway and then goes back to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I might one day write a companion piece to this but until then I think (and hope) it stands well on its own.


End file.
